Tin City (24 page)
“But he has a location?”
“McKenzie, have you ever been to Elk River?”
Special Agent Brian Wilson entered the Mall of America from the east parking ramp. He looked just the way I remembered him, maybe a little heavier. He even wore the same dark suit; I was willing to wager that he was the only one in the shopping mall who did wear one. I watched him carefully as he passed the shops and restaurants and the Bloomington Police Department substation. I didn’t see anyone lurking in shop doorways or peering from behind potted plants or speaking into their sleeves as he passed, but then that’d be the point, wouldn’t it?
He seemed to be doing the same thing I was, inspecting everyone around him as he walked, looking for tails. His eyes were steady, watchful, with a hint of curiosity. I doubted he missed much.
The Mall of America was the largest fully enclosed retail complex in the United States, with over 520 specialty shops and fifty restaurants. At the center of it was a Camp Snoopy theme park, built entirely beneath a glass-and-girder sky. Harry took the stairs, descending from the retail shops to the floor of the park. Sound followed him as he made his way toward the northwest corner—the laughter of children and the shouts of parents, the cries of young men and women on the Screaming Yellow Eagle and Mighty Axe thrill rides, the Hank Williams standard “Jambalaya”
broadcast from merry-go-round speakers, the rock song “Wild Thing” played for all it was worth by the Hill-Murray Parish Schools jazz band, and beneath it all a low, incessant rumble of human and mechanical noise that neither abated nor increased in volume.
broadcast from merry-go-round speakers, the rock song “Wild Thing” played for all it was worth by the Hill-Murray Parish Schools jazz band, and beneath it all a low, incessant rumble of human and mechanical noise that neither abated nor increased in volume.
Harry halted abruptly, and I thought he might have made me, but he paused only long enough to allow a young woman wearing a green Camp Snoopy polo shirt and leading three dark brown llamas to pass before him. A few moments later, he was standing in front of the Northwoods Stage. A preteen I had paid twenty bucks earlier handed him a palm-sized walkie-talkie and disappeared. Harry pressed the talk button.
“McKenzie?”
“How you doin’, Harry?” I asked as I worked myself into position.
“Getting a little paranoid, aren’t you, McKenzie? Over.”
“Haven’t you heard? The FBI is after me. Over.”
“I said I’d come alone. Over.”
“But you didn’t say you wouldn’t arrest me. Over.”
“Details, details.”
I leaned against the second-level railing outside the Tall Girl shop near the west entrance to Camp Snoopy, next to Joe Cool’s Hot Shop. I trained my binoculars on the Northwoods Stage.
“Why don’t you come here and we’ll talk about it. Over,” Harry said.
“I’ll tell you what, Harry. Why don’t you stand on home plate. Over.”
“Come again? Over.”
“Actually stand on home plate. Over.”
The Mall of America had been built on the former site of Metropolitan Stadium, where the Minnesota Twins once played baseball. As a tribute to the grand old lady, the mall embedded the stadium’s original home plate in its concrete floor. It was identified in gold: METROPOLITAN STADIUM HOME PLATE 1956-1981. From where I was perched, I could
clearly see Harry, but only if he stood on home plate. Two steps in any direction and he would have been obscured from view by indoor trees, the umbrella of a snack bar, and the pillars supporting the Northwoods Stage.
clearly see Harry, but only if he stood on home plate. Two steps in any direction and he would have been obscured from view by indoor trees, the umbrella of a snack bar, and the pillars supporting the Northwoods Stage.
Harry stood on the plate, looking in the opposite direction from where I stood.
“You look like you’ve been putting on weight, Harry. Over.”
“Thanks for noticing. Okay, I’m here. Over.”
“I appreciate you coming, Brian. Seriously.”
Harry hesitated, turned right and left, brought the walkie-talkie to his lips. “Brian makes me nervous. What’s going on? Over.”
“I’m going to tell you a few things, Brian. They’re not going to make you happy. Over.”
“I’m listening. Over.”
“It begins with Steven Sykora. Do you know him? Over.”
“From New York. What about him? Over.”
“He’s the one who issued the Seeking Information Alert on me. Over.”
“I know. Over.”
“Here’s why …”
I gave Harry everything I knew, mixing in what Roseanne Esjay had told me. Harry recapped my remarks when I had finished.
“Sykora is protecting a New York gangster named Russo—who murdered your friend—so Russo can help him build a case against a Mafia underboss named Little Al Granata. Does that pretty much cover it? Over.”
“Pretty much. Over.”
“And you expect me—and the bureau—to take your word for this? Over.”
“Of course not, Brian. Over.”
“I’m still listening. Over.”
“Look to your right. There’s a green metal trash container that looks like a mailbox with the words ‘waste paper’ stamped in gold on the side. See it? Over.”
“I see it. Over.”
“There’s an envelope taped to the bottom. Why don’t you get it, then come back to home plate. Over.”
Harry disappeared from view as he moved toward the trash container. He returned a few moments later. He had already opened the envelope and was holding two black cassette tapes in his hand.
“I got ’em. Over,” he said into the walkie-talkie.
“The tapes contain conversations between Sykora and Russo and Sykora and his wife that substantiate everything I’ve told you. Over.”
“Why do I have a feeling these were obtained illegally and are therefore inadmissible in a court of law? Over.”
“If things go badly for me, Brian, I won’t be playing the tapes in a court of law. Over.”
“McKenzie, what have you done? Over.”
“Tomorrow or the next day, the
New York Times
will be printing a story that says the FBI has Frank Russo in custody, that Russo is helping the bureau build a case against Granata, that the operation is similar to the one you guys ran in Boston against the Patriarca family a few years ago, and that Special Agent Steven Sykora is in charge. Over.”
New York Times
will be printing a story that says the FBI has Frank Russo in custody, that Russo is helping the bureau build a case against Granata, that the operation is similar to the one you guys ran in Boston against the Patriarca family a few years ago, and that Special Agent Steven Sykora is in charge. Over.”
“Sonuvabitch, McKenzie—”
I broke in on him before he could finish.
“The FBI will deny everything, of course. Over.”
“You can count on it. Over.”
“And because the bureau will then quietly discipline Sykora and arrest Russo and his thugs and make sure they’re tried for the murder of Mr. Mosley, nothing more will come of it. Over.”
Harry let that sink in for a moment. Finally he said, “Let me guess.
If
these things happen, then the copies that you made of these
tapes”—he was examining the cassettes as he spoke—“will be destroyed. Over.”
If
these things happen, then the copies that you made of these
tapes”—he was examining the cassettes as he spoke—“will be destroyed. Over.”
“That’s exactly what will happen. Over.”
“That’s my boy. Over.”
“If not …”
“You’ll be happy to share with CNN, Fox, National Public Radio, Time magazine,” Harry said over my transmission. “I get the picture. Over.”
“There’s nothing like the threat of bad publicity to get people to do the right thing. Over.”
“And there’s nothing like the threat of bad publicity to get people to do the absolutely wrong thing, either. Have you thought of that? Over.”
“I have. Over.”
“I bet. Over.”
“Something else, Brian. I want the Seeking Information Alert lifted. Over.”
“I can do that. Over.”
“I’d appreciate it. Over.”
“This whole thing pisses me off. Sykora pisses me off. Russo. You piss me off, McKenzie. Over.”
“Yeah? Look at it from my point of view. Besides,” I added before he could speak, “they’re both dirty, Brian—Sykora and Russo. I can’t believe you don’t want them, too. Over.”
“If they’re dirty, I do want them. But I haven’t heard the tapes yet. Over.”
“They’re exactly what I say they are. Over.”
“I’ll listen to them when I get home. Then I’ll talk to my boss. In the meantime, please, please, please, McKenzie, don’t do anything rash, not until we get this thing figured out. Okay? Over.”
“Brian, I promise you, on my word of honor, all I want to do is make this go away. All I want is to go home. Over.”
“Just don’t do anything foolish. Last thing we need is some amateur running around out of control. Over.”
“Who are you calling an amateur, Brian? Over.”
“It’s all right, McKenzie. You can call me Harry.”
The Mall of America took traffic flow seriously. I was able to get out of the ramp and onto the freeway in only a couple of minutes. I hated the idea of returning to the Hilltop Motel. But I didn’t have much choice. I was still a wanted man.
Maybe in a couple of days,
I told myself.
Yeah, maybe
.
I told myself.
Yeah, maybe
.
Victor was watering his parking lot again when I reached the motel, using his hose to push dirt onto the narrow boulevard. I always thought that was a peculiar thing to do, wash sidewalks and driveways with a hose, but a lot of Minnesotans do it. I was tempted to ask Victor why, but what was the point? Some things will never make sense. Like the scoring system used in tennis.
I settled into my room with ESPN. It had been a good day. Minnesota won and Seattle beat Chicago. I’m not a big fan of the Mariners, although I like Ichiro. When it comes to baseball, I always root for the Twins and whoever’s playing the White Sox.
After a couple of hours the phone began ringing in Sykora’s trailer. It rang four times within a half hour, but there was no one home to answer it. It rang twice more and then didn’t ring for nearly an hour. At about 9:00 P.M. it rang again as Pen and Sykora were entering their trailer. Sykora said, “I’ll get it.”
The woman on the other end spoke in the flat, monotonous tone of a telemarketer who wasn’t having much luck selling aluminum siding. She identified herself as the assistant to the special agent in charge of the Minneapolis field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She addressed Sykora as “Mister,” not “Agent.” She told Sykora that the
AIC would be out of the office Monday morning but that Sykora was scheduled to meet with him at 1:15 P.M. or when the AIC arrived, whichever came first.
AIC would be out of the office Monday morning but that Sykora was scheduled to meet with him at 1:15 P.M. or when the AIC arrived, whichever came first.
I would have liked to see Sykora’s face. Pen did and said, “What’s wrong?” the moment he hung up the phone.
“Hmm? Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me that, Steve. What’s wrong? Who was on the phone?”
“That was the assistant to the AIC. I think I’m in serious trouble.”
Pen asked him what he was talking about. Sykora danced around the answer as best he could, giving her a glimpse of his predicament without revealing the grisly details. As for me, I was so happy I drank my last James Page.
By this time tomorrow, I’ll be off the hook,
I told myself.
I told myself.
My only regret was Pen.
By this time tomorrow, her whole world will be changed.
I wondered briefly what that might mean. Would Pen leave her husband? If she did, was it possible for me to become part of her new life? How would she react if I revealed myself to her? Would she forgive me for destroying her husband’s career? Would she understand?
The phone rang again.
“Hello,” said Sykora.
“It’s me.”
“Frank? What do you want?”
“It’s on.”
“When?”
“Nine tomorrow morning.”
“Where?”
“In Elk River, like I told you before.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’re sure.”
“How many times do I have to say it? It’ll happen at nine tomorrow at the quarry. They’ll be driving one of those rental trucks.”
“You’re sure?”
“Fuck.”
“I’m gambling a lot on this.”
“Yeah. Me, too. What about McKenzie?”
“Fuck McKenzie.”
Sykora hung up the phone.
“Now what?” asked Pen.
“An opportunity.”
“What are you talking about? Where are you going?”
“Back to the office. I need to set up an operation.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you were in trouble.”
“I am, but … You give them a solid, high-profile bust, something big with a lot of PR value, the FBI will forgive almost anything.”
The door to the trailer opened and closed.
Pen said, “Damn.”
My reaction was considerably more colorful.
Later that night, I lay on my back in the dark, watching surprisingly crisp images floating around me. Mr. Mosley, Susan Tillman, Danny—what I had done to Danny. And others. Jamie Carlson. Two black kids named Young and Benjamn. A man I had killed with a shotgun. Still another man I had killed with a hand grenade. Jeezus, a hand grenade. Even now I shuddered at the thought of it.
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